Anyone would think she owned the town. She does not notice how they look at us. She seems to have forgotten all that has been done to her, to us. Our beloved Moss House that someone burned down and for which the culprit was never found.

It takes eight men to lower the large stone down into the spot, like the lowering of a coffin into a grave and I feel rather flattened that perhaps the bottle will be crushed under the weight of it and will not survive to be found in the future. Who would ever lift this stone again anyway, I wonder? Would they care for a note and coins left by two women as if it were somehow important?

Anne then speaks about her hometown and her interest in its prosperity; she proclaims that the work on this new building should be a credit to us all. I can feel them squirm, those who have wronged us, spoken ill of us, and to ensure that she has made her point as I try to hide my blushes, she turns preacher as if she has been practising her speech, and says, may the voice of discord never be heard within the hotel’s walls, may persons of every shade and varying opinion meet together here in amity and charity. They believe she talks of politics and business rivalries and the applause grows to cheering as if all is forgotten and forgiven on both sides. For a moment I believe it too. I look to the woman I love and love her even more for her words, her bravery, her defiance, and then I see a few men peel away from the back of the crowd, shaking their heads, and despite the loud cheers that follow us as we climb back into our carriage and the waves as we depart, it is the few men I think of; for although the whole seems friendly, supportive, it is the few that I fear. It only takes a few to spread rumours, to poison wells, to injure us, to burn down our Moss House.

Miss Lister

I manage to lease the hotel quickly and so it is out of my hands, the business all done with.